


Je veux un jour numéro deux

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Succubi & Incubi, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry doesn’t know what she is until others learn she’s a parselmouth.Succubus, is the whisper that follows her around the school.She’s twelve and scared and confused, because the most she’s done is kiss Ron on the lips and a longer practise session with Hermione once.or:Another one of those "the graveyard scene went a little differently"-fics.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 4
Kudos: 215
Collections: Anonymous





	Je veux un jour numéro deux

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what happened. One moment I was trying to sleep, and the next I was sitting at my PC and words fell out. It was supposed to be something with tentacles, and then this happened, and I don't even know anymore. It's super bare bones but I hope it's still enjoyable.

Harry doesn’t know what she is until others learn she’s a parselmouth. 

_Succubus_ , is the whisper that follows her around the school. 

She’s twelve and scared and confused, because the most she’s done is kiss Ron on the lips once and a longer practise session with Hermione once, and if she’s a succubus, does that mean she needs to do more? Does she _have_ to?

Hermione, who is a year older and knows more about boys than she does, helps her hunt for information. Ron just goes red and mumbles something about chess—one memorable time he’d mumbled something about homework, even—and then he promptly leaves them to it.

The most they find out is that it’s part of a myth, that it’s an old belief but that it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s true. There’s nothing on what it would mean to be a succubus, so Harry doesn’t think it’s something that applies to her. It’s just people being stupid once again, just like they’re being stupid about her being the heir of Slytherin.

She’s relieved, because it means she won’t suddenly start craving sex when she’s not ready for it.

  
  


Maybe not when she’s twelve, accidentally bleeding through her sheets and finding Hermione smiling softly at her in a ‘ _don’t worry, me too’-_ way.

Certainly not when she’s thirteen, knobby knees and developing, barely worth a glance.

Definitely not most of her fourth year, teenage hormones cloying the air wherever she goes.

She’s almost fifteen and the sky is dark, the graveyard lit up by a single modern street lamp and an old oil lamp hanging from a hook not far from the large cauldron Pettigrew is standing next to. Harry, bound to a headstone, has tried and failed to free herself from whatever it is that binds her to the cold stone, the chill seeping through her summer robes.

At first she thinks they’re ropes, but the ropes wiggle and with horror she realises they’re _tentacles_ ; thin fleshy straps so smooth they feel wet on her skin, with dark bulbous ends, and Harry hysterically thinks, _I’ve seen this before, I know where this is going_. The tentacles slide under her robes over her legs and her arms and around her torso like snakes, tightening their grip as if they know what she’s thinking about.

  
  


His touch doesn’t hurt. If anything, his fingers are warm and leave a trail of soft tingles behind. “I can touch you now,” he murmurs and Harry feels a shiver run down her spine.

He’s handsome for something that came out of a cauldron, though it’s harder to spot with the slimy substance sticking to his gleaming skin and dripping from his long, thick hair, landing in a pool at his bare feet. Sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks, thin lips and a modest nose, a strong jaw.

“Leave us,” Lord Voldemort commands Pettigrew, who hurriedly turns into a rat and scurries away, leaving her with a naked man standing far too close for comfort.

Harry tries to turn her head away from him, but he grabs her chin and forces her to look up. She only just withholds a gasp when she looks into his eyes, dark eyes speckled red in the light of the oil lantern. 

“I have heard many things about you, Harry Potter,” he continues.

He seems unbothered by all the grime he’s transferring to her by virtue of proximity. She grimaces when his thumb graces her lower lip, his hand large enough it’s inevitable, leaving a trail of _something_ behind. Without thinking she licks it away, and finds it’s sweet if a little gritty, like dirt.

“Is it true?” Voldemort asks then.

Harry frowns and resumes her struggles, but the tentacles move in response and she stills immediately, her heart beating wildly in her throat. “I don’t know,” she croaks, slightly out of breath, “is what?” She licks her lower lip again, but the taste is gone. “True?”

“A parselmouth.” He retreats, and Harry lets herself sag in her bindings, the straps successfully holding her up. “It is, isn’t it? Lord Voldemort recognises it when he sees it. So you must be…”

Harry’s eyes widen of their own accord. 

She knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about, doesn't need him trailing her chest with delicate yew, popping open the buttons of her robes one by one, to know what he means.

“They say they appear in pairs,” Lord Voldemort whispers, frowning, deep in thought, while Harry is half on her way to a panic attack, worsened by the writhing tentacles that have taken a new interest in her limbs. They are like questing fingers, curiously exploring her flesh at their leisure, and suddenly Harry suspects it’s not Pettigrew in charge of them; it’s Voldemort who is in charge of them.

That’s not very reassuring at all.

“W-what are you doing?” she manages.

“Silence, girl.”

Harry narrows her eyes and some of her bravado returns to her. “Fuck you,” she spits angrily.

He grips the underside of her face once more, covering her mouth but not her nose. She can hear her own harsh breathing, can smell the sweet substance leftover from the cauldron on his fingers. “ _Don’t_ test _me, child_ ,” he hisses.

At first she thinks he’s staring at the breasts, but no, his eyes are fixed on her neck. Whatever he sees there must pass muster, for he finally steps away from her entirely. They’re matching, both their robes fallen open, except Voldemort is naked beneath his, whereas she is still dressed in her school uniform.

She feels naked under his gaze regardless of what she’s wearing.

  
  


Apparently satisfied by whatever he found by staring at her neck, he calls his Death Eaters by poking his wand into Pettigrew’s arm. It must hurt some because Pettigrew whimpers faintly. Or maybe his stump still hurts, his silver hand shining in the soft moonlight, coated in barely dried blood.

Harry is too curious to struggle.

She’s calm, the smell of something like honey still in her nostrils.

_She’s too calm._

“What was that?” she asks but nobody answers.

  
  


Against all expectations, he lets her go. “A mere child,” he’d sneered, as if he hadn’t intently looked at her before his precious Death Eaters arrived, as if his eyes hadn’t lingered on the swell of her breast, the expanse of her bare legs, the curve of her hip.

She returns to Hogwarts confused and angry, but mostly angry.

In the hospital wing she rages, rips apart sheets and pillows alike. Tears into the duvets with the lingering feeling of a wetly smooth tentacle rubbing the inside of her thighs, with the shame of spreading her legs minutely, with the sudden wordless smirk on _his_ face, as if he knew exactly what she had just done.

She’s angry at herself for staying so calm, for not fighting back, and she doesn’t understand.

  
  


She's sixteen and Summer’s almost over and she’s curled up with Hermione and Ron on his bed. Mrs. Weasley will scream at them as soon as she sees them like this, but Harry doesn’t care, she needs a sense of belonging as she tells them of the graveyard. 

“Pheromones,” Hermione whispers, “that has to be it.”

“That strong?” Ron asks skeptically.

“She’s...” Hermione falls silent.

 _She’s a succubus_.

  
  


What she doesn’t tell them is _this_ :

 _Harry claws at the dirt, tries to get away and get closer at the same time. He’s too big for her, he’s going to tear her, she thinks wildly,_ it feels amazing _, she feels high. “Please,” she wheezes, but she doesn’t know what she’s asking for, whether she wants him to take his cock out or keep pushing in._

 _Then she realises he’s not moving at all,_ she _is._

What she doesn’t tell them is _this_ :

_She’s canting her hips and pushing back, keening loudly, long past shame. He laughs at her, and she wants his hands back on her hips to steady her, keep her grounded, because at any moment now she’s going to float away._

_She’s trembling in the aftermath but his pace doesn’t slow, if anything it spurs him on. She screams wildly around the fingers in her mouth when he thrusts in as far as he can go, pushing painfully against her cervix. She can feel his thick cock pulse when he comes, a soft groan in her ear that she’s not meant to hear but does anyway._

What she doesn’t tell them is _this_ :

 _I can still hear him_. _I dream of him_. _I wish my dreams were real_.

“I have to kill him,” is what she tells them.

_They say they come in pairs._

  
  


~fin.


End file.
